


The End of Brilliance.

by orphan_account



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Character Death, Dark, Multi, Violent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 15:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enraged by the fact that Sherlock survived the fall, Moriarty is driven further into insanity.  He hatches a horrific, evil plan to destroy the Detective once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The beginning of hell.

_I will hurt him._

Jim's eyes flew open. He sat up in his bed and wiped the thin sheet of sweat off his forehead. The same nightmare as before.

He was there.

He was laughing at him.

Mocking him.

Teasing him.

After hearing about his survival Jim had been having awful dreams. They consisted of two things. One thing was Sherlock. The second thing was him falling. Falling down. Spiralling down and down. He was always there, laughing at him, humiliating him. He knew it was just a dream, but he couldn't help but feel animosity after him. Sherlock Holmes survived the fall.

~~~~

A few months passed. Jim didn't sleep, didn't eat. All he did was plan. Plan and pace. It's all he felt he could do. He was a genius, but hated himself for being so stupid. Months of planning had concluded to one puzzle. One puzzle for Sherlock Holmes. One that he would never be able to solve. Emotions can do a lot to people. It toys with their head. Makes them unable to think straight, see clearly. And that's what he had to do. He had to see.

James would hurt him.

~~~~

Sherlock was standing outside Baker Street. He had a cigarette in his hands and he was staring up at the window he used to look out, while playing his trusty violin. He knew John's daily routines very well.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

At this time, he would usually come outside with his jacket and hail a taxi, on his way to work. He didn't. It had been half an hour. There was virtually no sign of life in Baker Street. Sherlock was anxious. He had to know what was going on. If he walked up there and John was just sitting there, with his cup of tea, reading the newspaper- he stops.

He would know if that were the case. Sherlock puts out his cigarette and walks up to the door. He scans it, taking in any information he could. Nothing. He straightens up slowly. At Mary's? Perhaps. Again, Holmes knew this was not the case. He missed his friend. He missed John's simplicity and subtle intelligence. He loved how, if he had thought Sherlock said something out of place, he would tell him. He wouldn't sit back and hide. He loved John's quiet bravery. He missed John. If he was hurt-.

Sherlock opened the door and walked in.There was no doubt about it. Something was off. Sherlock sniffed the air. Something metallic. He didn't want to walk up those stairs. He didn't want to see what was there. But he knew what was there.

He took one staggering step forward.

And another.

And another.

He was at the bottom of the stairs. The air got thicker as he got closer to his old flat. He put one hand on the bannister, walking up hesitantly. The stairs seemed to go on forever. He shook his head, obviously not thinking straight, but all he could think of was John. Eventually he got to the top of the stairs.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and stepped into the room. It was immaculate. As if someone had cleaned the place. He scanned the room. John was long gone. On the table was a box. It was a small box, wrapped teasingly with a bow. It was addressed to Sherlock and of course, it was from Moriarty. Sherlock felt cold. So cold. His breathing was heavy as he moved towards the box. Every step made him more apprehensive. His vision was blurring. What was this? He reached up to touch his cheek. Wet. Sherlock reached the box. He took a deep breath and opened it.

Big mistake.

Jim wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what Holmes would do. Sherlock blinked and looked in the box. Everything happened in a blur. He staggered back, gasping for air. He couldn't breath and he felt nauseated. He fell back onto the ground. All he could think about was poor John.

"What has he done?"


	2. The blood and the note.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Where are we heading today sir?"  
> Sherlock swallows thickly and answers. "Bart's hospital. And hurry. It's imperative I get there quickly. My friend’s life may be a stake."

  
Sherlock had no idea how long he had been sitting there, with silent tears rolling down his face. Why was he so hurt by this? He should be able to think. He can't think!  
The box. He couldn't stop thinking about what was in the box.   
This was all Jim.   
He was toying with his head, playing with his weaknesses. Feeding on his anguish.   
He was getting his revenge.  
A while after the tears had stopped coming, Sherlock hauled his self-off the ground and took shaky steps back towards the box. He took a deep breath and looked inside it once more.   
It was his violin. Broken, drenched in blood.   
The strings had been cut, the neck had been broken, the bow had been torn apart and snapped.   
The blood.   
So much blood.  
Sherlock walked to the kitchen and took out a pep-pit. He walked back to the blood and took a sample. He knew somewhere inside him, who's it would be, but he wouldn't admit it to himself.   
He walked out Baker Street, completely dazed. Every step felt like a mile. The air smelt too thick. Too full of misery. He hailed a cab and threw himself into it.  
"Where are we heading today sir?"  
Sherlock swallows thickly and answers. "Bart's hospital. And hurry. It's imperative I get there quickly. My friend’s life may be a stake."  
  
  
~~~~  
  
As Sherlock sneaks his way into Bart's, his heart is thumping. It was in his throat. Every beat was a thunder clap. He just needed to get to the lab and make sure it wasn't John's blood.   
Who was he kidding? Of course it was. He reached his lab without being spotted. Once he got there he collapsed and broke down in tears all over again.   
[Why did it have to be John?]  
[Why John?]  
[Why?]  
[Why?]  
  
A few hours later he had run the sample and had the answer. Sherlock had told himself so often that it wasn't John's blood that he had begun to think that he was right. He wasn't.   
It was John's blood. At least two pints of it, were in that box, with his broken violin, which was still dressed and bathing in the cold crimson liquid. Sherlock couldn't begin to imagine where he would be, what Jim was doing to him, what he was thinking.  
He probably hated him.  
It was all his fault. God knows what John was going through, and all because of him.  
Sherlock slammed his hand against the desk.  
Why couldn't he think clearly?  
A lab assistant walked in and handed him a note. Sherlock quickly deduced him.

He was mid-forties. Married. Owned a cat, and had a young son.  After Sherlock had taken it, he walked straight back out again, without saying another word. As soon as the door shut he heard a gunshot.   
Holmes ran out the doors almost falling over the man’s corpse. The man had been shot straight in the middle of his forehead.   
Sniped.  
Sherlock had to get out of there. He grabbed his coat, slipped the note in his pocket and walked slyly out of the hospital, where all of the torturous games and puzzles had begun, and ended.   
Once he was an adequate distance from Bart's he took out the note. It read;  
"Dear Sherly.  
How have you been? Feeling alive? I heard about that. As you can tell I wasn't exactly thrilled at your little party trick. You humiliated me and now you will pay in the worst way possible. Of course you have opened the box and you know exactly what I have in my possessions. That man can scream very loudly."  
  
Sherlock felt sick. He couldn't read on but there was more. He leaned against the tree he was standing under and continued.   
  
"I hope you realise the position you are in. Why don't you come along to watch the show? Of course it won't be me carrying out the Doctors treatment. I don't particularly enjoy having dirty hands. He has been screaming your name. He needed his best friend, but he wasn't there. Too busy sulking and feeling sorry for himself. Oh dear, oh dear.   
Stop by sometime. Address is on the back. See you soon dear.  
-JM x"  
  
Sherlock was breathing heavily. He tried to move but, could hardly breathe, he dropped the note and screamed into the tree hitting it with his fist, over and over again. His knuckles were bleeding. He had to get to John. He had to save John.  
If there was still a John to go to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapters are fairly shorts and this is simply due to the fact its's a short story. Feedback and criticism is very much welcomed, as long as it remains constructive.


	3. Hatred.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock felt as if he had punched him in the stomach. He shook his head.  
> [He hates me.]   
> [My best friend hates me. And it's all my fault.]

Sherlock had no idea how he was going to get in there. He spotted three snipers already. He was hiding behind a large bin, and surveying the place where Jim had said John was. What if this was all a trap?  
Sherlock didn't care.   
He had to treat this situation as if John was in there. As if John's life really was in danger.  
[“Wait, what am I saying? John is in tribulation.”]  
Sherlock swallowed. He couldn't think of what excruciating pain Watson was in right now. He knew what Moriarty was capable of. He didn't want to think. It made him feel horrendous.  
[“It’s all my fault. All my fault. Always my fault.”]  
These thoughts went round his head constantly. He was about to give up hope when Sherlock spied a way in.   
When the man with the gun had turn he darted forward and into the building.   
What was he thinking? John could be anywhere. This place was colossal.   
  
It took at least an hour of manoeuvring from shadow to shadow to get to the room with John in it. He walked in. His voice was shaky and hoarse, barely a whisper.  
"John?" Sherlock walked forward to stand In Front of the Doctor. Sherlock choked back a sob. He was so pale and thin. His eyes were open. They didn't have his bloggers spark in them any longer. Those eyes used to tell people a story. They used to show compassion, kindness. They made people feel safe.   
They used to be John's eyes.  
Now they were empty shells. Staring at Sherlock.  
Watson's face was bruised and swollen. His lips were burst and his head was bleeding. His nose was visibly broken.   
When he spoke, he could barely recognise his voice.   
"Stop. Please. Just leave. I know you aren't real."  
"John, please. I am. I'm here. We need to go. Oh god, J-John. I am so sorry. This was not meant to happen. It is all my fault." Sherlock collapsed onto his knees laying his head in John's lap.   
"Sherlock Holmes. I don't care if you are real or if you are just a hallucination. I- I don't want you here. I hate you. Do you hear me?! I hate you!" John screamed. He had tears rolling down his cheek and he was straining against his restraints.   
Sherlock felt as if he had punched him in the stomach. He shook his head.  
[He hates me.]   
[My best friend hates me. And it's all my fault.]  
Holmes lifted his head.   
"I am sorry. John, I never meant for th-"  
John's cries cut him off.   
"Piss off! Leave me! I hate you! I don't want your apology! I wish I had never met you! You a- and him are monsters! I just want to die!"   
  
That's when, he, walked in. He was chuckling. Sherlock didn't have any strength left inside of him. John's words had ripped out his cruel heart. He didn't care anymore. He didn't care. He just wanted John safe.  
  
"What do you think Sherly? Should we give him what he wants? Death?" Jim's voice was spine-chilling. It was menacing. Sherlock despised him. He was filled with a raging, terrifying anger. He let a roar escape from his throat and he charged at Jim. Two strong hands gripped him and held him back from the man who had caused this. He screamed at Jim, trying to rip away from the iron grip that was stopping him from ripping Moriarty's throat out. They turned him to look at John.   
"I think we should. But first, let’s play a little game." Jim pulled a knife from his jacket and twirled it expertly in his hands. It caught the dull lighting in the room. Jim's smile made Sherlock cringe and look away.   
He walked over to John. John looked away.   
He was crying.   
Jim presses the knife to John's cheek. He applies pressure and slowly slits the poor man’s cheek. John screams.   
"James stop! Please! I beg you!"  
The criminal grins mischievously.   
"You want it to stop, he wants it to stop. Fine. I've had my fun. I'll stop"  
Sherlock sighs heavily. He looks at Jim. He is about to say something when James interrupted him.  
"But, the game is not over. Shall we end it?"  
Professor James Moriarty, takes the knife and runs it through John's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy angst now, and still to come.   
> Again, my chapters are short, but thats because it has a short storyline.   
> Sorry about the death.


	4. Caring is not an advantage.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock blames himself for the death of John. He cannot bare to live with himself any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extremely short update and it's mainly because the concluding chapter is rather large. Enjoy! -Feedback welcomed.-

[No.]  
  
"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed as John gasped for air. Jim twisted the knife and pulled it out, taking the last of John's life with him. His eyes closed over and Jim smirked.   
Sherlock just stared. He couldn't believe what was going on.  
  
[It's a nightmare. It all a horrid nightmare. I will wake up and John will be at work. Chatting with women, doctoring patients. He will be happy. He will still be my friend.]  
  
[He hated me in the end.]  
  
[Hate.]  
  
Sherlock felt sick. He tilted his head and through up. The men who were holding Sherlock on his knees dropped him and made disgusted noises. James silenced them with a hand.   
He walked over and crouched down in front of Sherlock. His voice was cynical when he spoke.  
"It's all your fault Holmes. You know better than, to play games with me. To humiliate me. You took my reputation. What I cared about most, and now I have taken yours." He stood up and addressed the men.   
" Let him leave if he wishes. I don't care what he does with himself."  
And with that, James Moriarty and his men left, leaving Sherlock alone in anguish, with his dead blogger, that he would never talk to again.   
Sherlock couldn't deal with it. He let himself care and this is what happened. He let someone, so innocent and so good, walk into his abnormal life.   
  
[Why?]  
[It's all my fault.]   
  
Doctor John Watson, his companion, his friend, was dead.


	5. Brilliance falls.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opened his heavy eye lids. If only this could have been the conclusion. If only this is what had happened. If only it was just another awful dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is concluded in a rather heart-wrenching manor.  
> Comments totally welcomed, and thank you very much for reading.^.^

Four months had passed since the death of Watson.  
Sherlock was on drugs again.  
He had never been so low in his life. He was haunted by the same nightmare every time his eyes closed and his subconscious took over.  
It was Jim. Driving the glinting knife into John's heart and bringing it back out soaked in blood. Something was different about this one though. After Jim had killed John, he walked over to where he supposed he was and Jim kissed his forehead.  
  
Sherlock sat bolt upright. A thick layer of sweat, draining his body. He turned and let out a yelp. John was lying against the bed, but his eyes were gouged out and his face was bloody and bruised. He cried as the whispers whistled through his mind. They got louder every single day. Always telling him to do it. James had said that he was never going to kill Sherlock. He said that he would never kill him. Such a waste of intelligence he had said. James told him that Sherlock would kill himself.  
  
That's exactly what he was going to do.  
He got up and walked to the bathroom. It reeked of bile and blood. All the mornings he had ran to the bathroom and thrown up. All the nights he has slipped on the damp floor and hit his head, causing it to bleed. The smell would be permanent. He splashed cold water on his face and look in the mirror. His eyes widened in horror as behind him was John. Again. He was hanging from the shower rail and his throat was slit. Sherlock yelped and rubbed his eyes furiously.  
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."  
He had been repeating these words over and over again, hoping that John would forgive him and leave. He never did.  
  
Sherlock was turning mad. Sometimes he argued that he already was. His mind palace had been destroyed and he had nowhere to run to. Sherlock was a mental and emotional wreck.  
He constantly hallucinated, all because of the drugs he was pumping into his blood stream. He thought he might escape them. The hallucinations. Sometimes he did. For a placid few moments Sherlock was free. When those moments were over, his life turned into a living nightmare.  
  
He ran out the bathroom and out the flat. He stumbled down the road, heading nowhere in particular. After a while of running he stopped outside a massive building.  
It was Bart's. He walked over to the pavement he should have died on years ago. He looked at in and a tear rolled down his face, landing on it. If only he had died then. If only he hadn't cheated death. John would still be alive. Ms Hudson may still be alive. Lestrade would not have left.  
All of his friends were gone. Because of him.  
Sherlock swore loudly and hit his fist hard against the wall. He walked into Bart's and up the stairs. He kept climbing and climbing. He soon felt he wasn't walking at all. That some other being had taken control of his body and was leading him up the stairs and onto the roof top.  
He reached the roof and walked outside, the icy wind cutting through him like a knife. The smell fresh but tainted with Sherlock’s body odour, from not having washed in months.  
  
He felt something was watching him, so he turned swiftly. He broke down weeping bitterly. It was John again. His face was bruised, his eyes were gone, and his throat was slit. Would he ever be free? Would his guilt ever stop eating away at his brilliance?  
  
"Leave me alone! I have apologised! What more do you want?!"  
  
The realistic hallucination pointed to the end of the hospital roof.  
John wanted him to jump too.  
  
Sherlock cried hopelessly. Losing his best friend happened so quickly. It was horrendous in every moment, and he hated the man who did this to him. He hadn't realised how much John meant to him. How much he needed him, until it was too late. He just wanted to die. There was nothing left for him on this world. Absolutely nothing.  
  
The thunder clapped above him and the flood gates of heaven opened.  
Rain fell heavily, drenching Sherlock in seconds. It battered off the roof and his cries were barely audible over the sound.  
  
He pushed himself off the ground and staggered over to the roofs edge. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and touched his face gingerly. His face was moist but he did not know if he was still crying due to the heavy down pour of rain. He looks over the edge. People were running about with their umbrellas held above their heads, helplessly running to find cover from the British weather. They were all so pathetic.  
  
["But don't worry. Fallings just like flying, except there's a more, permanent destination."]  
James Moriarty's words flew round in his head.  
He wasn't as scared this time.  
  
He knew how long it would take to hit the pavement, and surely you cannot relive the same sensation, jumping off the same building.  
All he felt was guilt. Guilt for what had happened to his friends because of him and guilt for all the wrong he had done in his life.  
  
Sherlock put one foot on the ledge and stepped up. He looked down and was filled with vertigo.  
  
The voices were back.  
The voices were always there in moments of despair. Moments of self-pity, self-loathing. Telling him to do terrible things to himself. The orders had gotten worse over the past few weeks. They had started to apprise him to take his own life.  
  
Sherlock had finally given in. He wept loudly, hating himself and everything that was him. Everything that defined him. He hated it all.  
In that last moment of anguish, that last moment of understanding Sherlock Holmes, the once Great Detective, had lost.  
  
He stopped crying. He stopped feeling. He stopped believing. He stopped caring.  
  
[Fall, and let death carry me away in his arms.]  
  
Sherlock stepped forward into nothingness and fell.  
  
He fell down and down, forever, and before he hit the ground he sat bolt upright in bed. He was gasping for air and he shook his head furiously. A warm tender hand touched his arm lightly.  
"Hey Sherlock. It's okay. Bad dream?"  
He turned to the voice and nodded, swallowing thickly.  
"Yes. Different this time."  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
"No John, I don't. It was horrible."  
"Okay, okay. Just lie back down and sleep. You have a case to deal with tomorrow." Sherlock fell back into his mattresses warm embrace and nuzzled his face into his pillow, inhaling deeply.  
"Okay John. Goodnight."  
"Night Sherlock. Try, and sleep." John walked back through to the lounge and Sherlock closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep peacefully. All was well. It was just another bad dream.

Sherlock opened his heavy eye lids. If only this could have been the conclusion. If only this is what had happened. If only it was just another awful dream.  
  
Sherlock stepped forward into nothingness and fell. He couldn't breathe, the wind filling his lungs, as he dropped through the air like a stone. His whole life flashed before his eyes. It had been a good life it up until the last six years. And that’s all he would remember. He hit the ground and that's when everything stopped.  
  
The wind.  
  
The rain.  
  
The torment.  
  
The physical struggle.

The mental struggle.  
  
His thoughts.  
  
His mind.  
  
His heartbeat.  
  
Everything.  
  
Sherlock Holmes, was dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... 'Tis the end dear, readers. This was so much fun writing, and I thank everyone who took the time to read it. I will be writing more stories. All will, hopefully, not be as dark as this, but who knows? 
> 
> Thank you again, comments welcomed and I will take requests... Or whatever.  
> Until the next time,  
> Farewell.


End file.
